


Denouement

by glanmire



Series: Company. [8]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Influence of the Ring, M/M, Trigger Warning- Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glanmire/pseuds/glanmire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The conclusion to the Company series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denouement

Thorin had rid himself of Bilbo's ring as soon it fell into his hands, like it was filth and he needed to be clean again.

He decided to give it to Ori, who was the youngest and kindest member of the Company, and would surely bear its burden the lightest.

Thorin had an instinct not to touch the ring, not to go near it, and yet another impulse deep inside him encouraged him to hold onto it.  
Ori was too young, too foolish, the voice told him. You are the King. You are the one who can-

He ignored it with his usual tact, and with steely resolve, gave the ring to Ori.  
The young dwarf was trembling, and yet eager to prove his worth, and perhaps even a little-awestruck that he had been chosen. Foolish, the voice inside him muttered.  
Thorin handed it over, his heart heavy in his chest like a stone.

He did not forget the matter of the ring so easily though.

He acquired the habit of checking every night that it was still hidden in the secret pocket stitched in Ori's backpack. The voice was like an itch, niggling at him until he gave in, and Thorin was wary of the day that he'd scratch the itch so hard he would rip himself open.  
But checking once a day did no harm. It was simply for security, to lull the voice, nothing more.

When Bofur was but a child, he saw a dwarf fall into a fire.  
The stranger had been polluted with alcohol, and simply lost balance. It happened.

Bofur had screamed and the stranger had screamed too; screamed as his face burned away, his left eye melting, his skin crackling and blistering.

Bofur had been frozen to the spot, even unmoving as others ran to save the stranger. He had done nothing.  
They pulled the dwarf out and he lived. Half his face was melted away like soft wax, bones visible under the ruined flesh, yet he breathed.

Bofur had thrown up then, and by the time he'd recovered, the stranger had been taken away to be treated, still screaming.  
Bofur was only very young, but age was no excuse for weakness. He had failed this man, this stranger who had nearly died for Bofur's hesitation.

After that, things were different. When others mined and heated and beat the metal, he made toys, safe from the wrath of fire.  
And when Thorin Oakenshield bade him to help retake Erebor, honour pushed him to say yes, though he was sickened by fear.  
He decided not long into the quest that he could not do it. He would assist them in every way until they reached Laketown, but he would go no further. Bofur could not face dragon fire.  
He would injure himself, cripple himself, any excuse at all to be left at Laketown, and he knew this uncomfortable truth as even they left the Shire. It weighed on him, but he would rather be dishonoured than face fire, and so he made his choice.

It was night and yet voices roared, and Bofur was awake and on his feet before he knew what was happening.  
Thorin and Bilbo stood some distance away, shouting at one another, and Thorin moved to strike the hobbit.  
Bofur went to stop him, but Thorin and Bilbo were closer to the campfire than he, fighting perilously close to the flames.  
Bofur was terrified for an instant, and then he shook his head.  
He would act this time.

"The ring is gone! You stole it!" Thorin shouted at the hobbit, his anger cascading inside of him, almost painful.

Bilbo roared back in a voice that was larger than he, "The very point of this quest is stealing back what's yours, is it not?"

The world slowed.  
Thorin only saw the hobbit. There was a roaring in his ears; it may have been him screaming, but all he knew was what he saw, and he saw his own hand plummeting into Bilbo's soft features.

The rage was too fast, too brutal for him to go for his sword- he used his fists like a Man would - he needed, he craved the instant satisfaction of feeling Bilbo's nose break behind his fists, feel kick after kick strike into the hobbit's soft, weak belly.

He did not know how long it lasted, he only saw Bilbo, curled in a heap beneath him, his hands wrapped instinctively around his bare head for some desperate protection.  
Thorin drove his boot into his face for that.

It might have been seconds later, it might have been hours, when another voice, several voices, cut through his anger.  
He turned slowly, like great beast awoken from his slumber, vicious.

Bofur was screaming at him, a step away, but Thorin fleetingly understood what Óin's world of deafness was like; he heard nothing, he only saw the lips moving in anger.  
Fili had his hand on his sword, but Thorin knew he would not draw it. His sister-son was a fine fighter, but he was nothing on Thorin, and he would die if he intervened now.

It was Kili that stopped Thorin cold.  
Kili, who had his bow out, an arrow notched on it, and stood too far away so that Thorin would not land a blow first.  
Kili looked straight at him, deathly serious.

"Uncle, stop." he said, a warning, a plead.

Thorin stopped and looked down at his own hands, which were dirtied with the hobbit's blood and his own, his cracked knuckles weeping.

He looked up again at the three dwarves in front of him, and saw the fear in their eyes, but also something else, something akin to pity.

Bilbo gasped on the ground for air, and he reminded Thorin suddenly of the toys that Bofur made that had gone wrong, limbs sticking out in wrong places.  
Ones that was useless and cast out, discarded.

Thorin understood then what he had done.  
He pulled on the ring, and fled, his shame burning away at him like dragon-fire.

Bilbo could not breathe.

He remembered, distantly, a cough he had once, and how he had thought that that was pain. That was nothing.  
He remembered drowning too, and that had been a gentle swim compared to this.

This was fire. This was agony.

Faces blurred in front of him, voices deep yet soft. He heard fragments,  
"could be broken" "don't lift him" and Bofur leaned over him.

"Bilbo? Bilbo? Can you hear me?" he asked, concern in his voice.

Bilbo heard whimpering, but it was distant and disconnected.

"-going to set it now, hold him down-"

and strong, firm hands held him in place and he thrashed, suddenly understanding the moment before it happened, and Óin pushed down on his arm and he was gone.

Bilbo awoke. He kept his eyes closed for the moment, trying to think.

There was something wrong. He ran his tongue along his teeth and felt a hole where there should be a tooth. That was strangely upsetting. It was such a commoner's thing to do, to lose a tooth in a fight. His mother would have been ashamed.

Bilbo realised that he was in shock then, and opened his eyes.  
The dwarves were deep on discussion, but turned to look at him. Glóin was just saying, "do we abandon-" but cut off as Bilbo pleaded, "water."

Fili wordlessly came to him and gave him a skin of it. He drank deeply before looking to Óin and asking, "How bad?"

Óin had his ear-trumpet in for once, which showed Bilbo how serious this was.  
He looked at Bilbo, his face neutral.  
"At least two broken ribs, broken nose and dislocated shoulder that I know of. The usual knocked out teeth, black eyes too. Could have internal injuries."

Bilbo surprised himself with his own lack of panic over the list of injuries.  
"Alright then." he conceded, for the lack of anything else to say.  
He took another drink of the water, and felt it trickle down inside of him, cool.

There was an uneasy silence.

Thorin had evidently left, not for the first time, but this time he was not lost, and no one was rallying to look for him either.

Yet Bilbo understood that although Thorin had attacked him, it did not matter, not truly. Thorin was their King, their leader. He would lead them back to Erebor, and Bilbo understood that they would follow him, no matter what his flaws.

"I think I'll try sleep" he said slowly.

The dwarves looked relieved.  
Óin approached him and mumbled about herbs, but Bilbo waved him away. The pain was distant, almost, so bad that it couldn't possibly be real, and it was so exhausting that Bilbo needed to sleep, immediately.

He also knew that the dwarves needed to talk without him weighing in, and so he slept.

He dragged his eyes open hours later.  
The camp was silent, the dwarves having found sleep, but tension still hung heavy in the air.

Bilbo slowly, very slowly, pushed himself to his feet. He used the tree behind him as support, and the bark scraped along his back like a fingernail.

Balin, who was on watch, stared at him silently.  
"I'm going to find him." Bilbo found himself saying, neutrally.

Balin nodded. "Then off with you laddie" he said, equally monotone, and looked away.

Bilbo moved towards the tree line, just beyond the camp boundary.  
He knew Thorin would be there, waiting within sight of the camp, hidden by the Ring yet not quite invisible, and too conflicted to return yet.

The dwarves needed their King to return soon, before anymore undue damage was done to the Company's morale, and yet Bilbo knew Thorin would not face him easily again.

It took him a long time to cover the short distance. He did not consider his pain, did catalogue each individual agony, because if he did, he would surely stop.

He reached the trees and leaned against one, panting. He closed his eyes for a moment and sucked in shallow breaths, his lungs burning.

When he opened his eyes again, Thorin was in front of him.

He flinched.

It was partly the shock, but also some voice saying, this dwarf beat you half to death hours ago and now you've gone to find him, are you looking for -  
Bilbo ignored it and stared at Thorin, who was even quieter than usual, his face betraying nothing.  
He reminded Bilbo of overcast skies, and how you never knew when the storm would come and drown you.

Bilbo usually was the first to talk, the first to try and broach the vast gaps in their conversations and fill in air with something, anything.

He did not speak this time.

Thorin moved in closer to Bilbo, so that they were almost touching, and Bilbo's strained breaths marked the air, white puffs touching Thorin's chest. It was cold.

"Bilbo" Thorin said softly, who usually avoided Bilbo's name like it was concession, and called him the hobbit, the burglar, even Baggins, but barely ever Bilbo.  
He understood that the name was an apology, yet he still did not speak.

He was not afraid that Thorin would strike him again, and yet he shivered.

"Bilbo" Thorin said again, and he opened his palms out flat almost unconsciously, a universal sign that read I'm not going to hurt you, and yet at that slight movement Bilbo flinched again, a reflex.

"It's alright, really Thorin." he tried, though it wasn't, not at all, but he knew his manners, even if they were all he knew anymore.

"No." Thorin stated, staring at Bilbo.  
"I had no right."

He pulled off the ring slowly and gave it to Bilbo, who gave it back, their hands touching, his encompassed by Thorin's.

"That thing has only caused me trouble" he said, looking straight at Thorin.  
"It is yours."

Their hands were still touching.  
They were so close now that Bilbo could feel the warmth of Thorin's furs.  
He was trapped, his back to the tree and Thorin filling all the space in front of him, yet he was not afraid.

If he had pipe-weed left, he might have said that they should share it; and hope that the smoking would heal things between them.  
He had none though, and he stayed silent.

Their rhythmic puffs of breath were the only thing that marked time passing, and their bodies were pressed up against one another now, as protection from the cold.

Thorin spoke again. "I am truly sorry Bilbo," and he took his free hand and ran it slowly through Bilbo's hair, and held the back of his neck. Thorin's hand was large and warm, and Bilbo responded to that warmth and moved an infinitesimal amount closer, and realised his nose was now buried in Thorin's furs.

"Oh-" he said, and looked up, and that was all he had time for, because Thorin was leaning down and pressing his lips chastely against Bilbo's forehead.  
"Please forgive me" Thorin said and moved away, his face unreadable.

The moment was lost. The warmth was gone. Bilbo yearned for something yet he did not know what, something intangible that went beyond his injuries and ached deep inside him.

"Thorin?" he asked.

"Yes?"

And Bilbo did not know what to ask for, and so the lie slipped into place easily as he dropped the ring into his pocket.  
"Can you carry me back- like before- it's just-"

and perhaps he meant it too, because everything did burn, everything hurt.

Thorin came back to him and then strong hands held his sides, ready to lift him up, and yet they stayed like that, and Bilbo could not help himself, and he shivered.

He looked into Thorin's eyes and he saw madness there. He saw greed and he saw pride.  
Bilbo also saw love, for his nephews and for his people. He saw goodness and courage, leadership and conviction.  
He saw something else, something unexpected, and that was what Bilbo was looking for, and although his bones ached he stood on his toes and kissed Thorin Oakenshield hard on the mouth.

Thorin responded quickly, a warrior's reflexes, and Bilbo found himself once more that night with his back pressed against a tree.  
Thorin looked at him and Bilbo did not know how he would respond, and then Thorin's hands were running behind Bilbo's head again, cupping it, a very different touch than the feel of bark, and then he was kissing Bilbo back, hard.

He thought he would die then, with Thorin taking whatever air he had left, and one of those huge hands leaving his head and wandering down his front, and Bilbo tried to take in shallow breaths to calm himself.

Thorin pulled back, and Bilbo felt sudden, brutal dismay. This is what Thorin needed. Not violence, not anger. This.  
He pushed himself closer and Thorin held him back by the shoulders, strong.

"No. I would not hurt you further this night"

and he was suddenly being lifted and carried and it was a gutting disappointment yet also almost a relief. There was a implication there, and Bilbo clung to the hope of it as they crossed the short distance to camp.

Balin said nothing as they came back, and Thorin acted like the older dwarf was not there.  
He lay Bilbo back down gently.

The pain was swallowing Bilbo now, yet he had one more coherent thought left.  
"You won't go again will you? They need you"

Thorin simply said, "No." and Bilbo did not know to which he was disagreeing with, but sleep took him before he could inquire further.  
The last thing he knew was the weight of furs being draped over him, and he was gone.

fin.


End file.
